


Stay the Night-mares

by whatdoyouthinkmyjobis



Series: Hunters on the Hellmouth [9]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Memories, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Dean in Denial, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Fluff, Injury, Making Out, Nightmares, Plotty, Protective Sam Winchester, Sex, Vampires, Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 09:53:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7679830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatdoyouthinkmyjobis/pseuds/whatdoyouthinkmyjobis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Buffy and Dean's casual relationship hurtles toward something deeper as they discover more about each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay the Night-mares

A black classic Impala sat on an unusually abandoned bluff overlooking Sunnydale. At this elevation, the city, normally bubbling with violence, looked like a calm night sky, but the couple inside wasn’t paying attention to the view. His fingers twisted in her curls and tugged her bra straps while her lips explored a constellation of freckles on his collarbone.

Suddenly, she pulled away and stuck her head out the open window. “Did you hear something?”

Hungrily running his palm over the curve of her ass and imagining stripping off her jeans, Dean did not hear the question.

Buffy tucked her head back into the car and once again settled in Dean’s lap. “We need to focus. Sex later.”

He threw his head back on the seat and groaned like a little boy who couldn’t have candy before dinner.

“The waiting will make it better,” she teased.

She was right; the waiting had made it better. Nearly a week after their first night together, he found himself thinking about her during his work day. He made excuses to go on extra patrols with her. She wasn’t a simple hookup.

Dean had spent his entire life around hunters. They wore coats of grief and swam in liquor to keep going, killing another monster their only motivation. A fun night in a hunter bar meant swapping stories of decapitation, comparing weapons, and shooting pool until a fist fight broke out.

A night with Buffy also had its share of violence, but it was more like a footnote than the climax of the story. Walking by the wharf, entertaining each other with the worst jokes they’d ever heard, staking a couple vampires, mocking each other’s favorite bands, finding a private spot to unravel.

“Admit it,” Buffy said. “This is your favorite patrol ever.”

“It’s taking forever,” he said.

“Mmm, I thought you liked it slow,” she palmed him through his jeans.

Futilely trying to cover his excitement with an annoyed face, he grunted, “You are literally a cock tease, you know that right?”

She smiled and said, “Dean, you’re such a poet,” before running her tongue up his neck.

He gently pushed her off and panted, “God, let’s just _talk_ about something, or I’m going to explode.”

She feigned a pouted, trying to tempt him. Neither of them wanted to wait.

Unlike his brother, Dean had never wanted to be normal, to fit in. Knowing what he knew, white picket fences and weekend barbecues were never going to be his gig, but maybe he could beat back the dark enough for other people to enjoy life.

Buffy enjoyed life. She consumed it in gulps, and grabbed every experience she could from world-saving to trips to the fair with Dawn. She was neither ignoring her assigned duties, nor was she crying about her short life. She was Buffy – vampire Slayer, college student, sister. She was neither normal, nor jaded. She was simply enjoyable.

A grin broke out on her face. “Alright, remember the other night when we were talking about school? Sam said he always liked staying at Father Jim’s because he got to go to the same school for weeks, but you, naughty boy, got kicked out in less than a month. Tell me why you got kicked out of the Catholic school.”

Buffy loved asking him about his childhood. Dean knew part of it was her excitement to being able to share her world with someone. Part of it was idle get-to-know-you curiosity, which didn’t square with their keep-it-casual agreement.

He smirked. “I think I skipped some big school assembly to make out with some red head. Got caught.”

"Classy.”

“Don’t tell me you never skipped class for some guy?”

She looked away, guilt written all over her face. He decided not to pursue the question.

“God, was that at Saint Christopher’s? No! That was some school in Utah. Freshman year? We were only there a couple a weeks while Dad dealt with this haunted mine, but they keep a pretty tight ship.”

Buffy climbed back into his lap, the smell of her hair was enough to get him hard again.

“Catholic school. Let’s see, I was in middle school when we started staying at Father Jim’s regularly… I know! I called a nun a liar.”

She shifted her weight and leaned against the door. “What for?!”

“She said God loved us, everyone. I told her that was bullshit, and she shouldn’t lie to kids. God didn’t exist.”

“You _didn’t_.”

“I did.”

“What happened?”

“It built up. First the nun smacked me with a ruler –”

“They really do that?”

“They did for me. Beat me with a ruler. Made me sit in the corner. Sent me to the principal. Made me scrub the bathrooms. Eventually they got sick of fighting me, and the nuns insisted Father Jim keep me at the church when we were in town. Thought just sitting in the House of the Lord would fix me. He always put me on cleaning duty after that. God, church people are messy.”

She nestled back into his arms and played with the buttons on his shirt. “Do you think it’s true?”

“Yeah! One visit, I found six condoms. People were fucking all over that building.”

“No, not the messy church people – but ew – I mean God not existing.”

Dean buried his face in her hair. He didn’t need to think about it anymore. Heaven and Hell were real. He’d run and hid from both. Dean was number one on Lucifer’s hit list, and God didn’t care to lift a finger.

“I don’t think the show’s being run by some perfect Creator,” he said. “You know how high schools are? The principal or the school board or some other dick in a suit thinks they’re running the show, but the animals have locked up the zookeeper. The kids are in charge. Whatever group of kids leads the pack sets the tone. I think we may have some dicks yelling orders behind the scenes, but us monkeys are all that make things go.”

“Utah, St. Christopher’s. Dean, how many schools were you kicked out of?” she asked somberly.

“Not sure. There were so many we were only in for a few days, and then there were some where I just played hooky every day. It’s kinda blurry now. Doesn’t really matter.”

She sighed. “I wish my parents had felt that way.”

He’d seen the pictures on the wall of Buffy in her little pleated skirt, pom poms in the air, the perfect Southern California cheerleader. It was easy to forget her superhero secret turned her into just as much of a delinquent as he had been.

“Was this when you blew the school up?” he asked.

“That was at graduation. When we lived in LA, I burned the school’s gym down. In my defense, it was full of vampires!”

He kissed the top of her head. “You don’t need to defend yourself to me.”

“I needed to defend myself to my parents. They didn’t know I was the Slayer. They’d been fighting about me for months. ‘What’s wrong with Buffy? She used to be so popular. Why is she sneaking out? She’s your daughter!’ After the gym, I tried to tell them the truth. You know what they did, Dean?”

“Called Nurse Ratched to lock you up.”

She uncoiled her body and scrutinized his face for a hint of the shared pain in her eyes. “Did you..?”

“Hunters don’t get good endings, Girly, but that doesn’t mean they all get killed.”

He rubbed her back, enjoying the warmth of her presence as the crickets chirped outside. He softly kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her neck. She searched for his mouth in the moonlight and pressed into him, lips parted.

Then she was ripped from the car through the open window.

Before Dean could grab his machete by the seat, a vampire yanked open the car door and punched him. Head spinning and his vision a blur of lights, he was dragged from the car.

Two vampires threw Buffy to the ground. “Enjoying the night?” teased the one with dreadlocks.

Buffy flipped onto her knees, stake drawn from her waistband, and punctured his heart. “Now I am.”

Panicked, the heavy vampire stomped on her ankle and started to run away. Sucking wind through her teeth, Buffy sprinted after him. She flung her stake through the air, turning her target to dust. Her ankle sent needles through her leg, and she collapsed.

Disoriented, Dean kicked and punched until he heard the vampire grunt in pain. He stumbled back to the Impala to fetch his weapon. A full body blow pushed him against the car and a searing pain ripped through his shoulder. He twisted enough to plunge his blade into the vampire. It released him and howled. Dean swung, cutting halfway through the neck. He raised his machete again and chopped through the vampire flopping on the ground.

“Buffy?”

There was a blonde pile about thirty feet away.

“No! No! No! Buffy, are you okay?”

She was trying to crawl to him. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, he scooped her up and carried her back to the car.

* * *

 

Hot pins shot through her foot and leg. Her ankle, certainly broken, was swollen to twice its regular size.

“It’s okay, Buffy, I got you.” Dean held her close as they sped back through town, running his hands all over her, checking for blood, keeping her alert.

When he got out of the car, she saw blood streaming from his shoulder, soaking his shirt. Still he carried her like she was weightless to his motel and set her on the bed. She cried out as he carefully removed her shoe.

“It’s okay. It’s okay,” Dean repeated.

“You know I’m still here, right?” Sam groaned, turning on the bedside light. “Holy shit! What happened?”

Kneeling at the foot of the bed, Dean had a black eye, his clothes dirty. Buffy, also filthy and bloody, winced in pain and held her purple, softball-sized ankle. “Sammy, grab the first aid kit. Can you move it?”

“I’ll be okay,” she gasped. “Wrap it up. It will be healed in the morning. Slayer perk.” She smiled weakly to reassure him.

“I can’t wrap this. I think it’s broken.”

“Nope, I’m fine.” She tried to stand, but the pain seared through her leg. She fell back on the bed.

Sam handed Buffy a bottle of whiskey. She took a swig and shuddered as the harsh liquid burned her throat.

“Sam, Dean got bit.”

“What? Where?”

“It’s nothing,” Dean lied.

“Like Hell, Dean! Show me.”

Dean pointed at his blood-soaked shoulder.

“Bleeders first, okay. Lemme get something to clean this.”

Buffy peeled off Dean’s sticky shirts. The skin on the wing of his shoulder-spanning phoenix tattoo hung in chunks. Returning with towels and a glass of water, Sam sopped up the blood and washed the wound with whiskey. Then he sewed the skin back in place while Dean took long draughts from the bottle.

“How do poofy bites work here? I’m I gonna get all fangy and yellow-eyed, ‘cause I don’t think that’s a good look for me.”

“Not unless you drank its blood. I don’t think it fed off you enough to trigger that change, anyway.”

“Anne Rice school then.”

“Who’s Anne Rice?”

Dean cringed. “Whacha doin’ back there, Sammy?”

“Literally saving your hide. The vampire almost took a People McNugget out of you. It’s a lot of stitches.”

Buffy took the whiskey again. It burned like gasoline, but it made her feel warm and fuzzy. “Your tattoo’s going to be all funny,” she half-whispered. “Pity. That one was my favorite.”

“How many vampires were there?” Sam’s jaw was clenched as he looked angrily between her and the back of Dean’s head.

“Three.”

“And they did this much damage? Did they get the drop on you?”

Buffy poked through the first aid kit on the bed until she found an elastic bandage and a couple tongue depressors. Pulling her pant leg up, she started to splint her ankle, hoping this would heal like so many cracked ribs and stab wounds before it.

“Sure you don’t wanna go to the hospital, Girly?”

“It’s just a sprain. It’s aggravated because I ran. I’m telling you, come morning, the swelling will have gone down, and it will just be all bruisey. I’ll probably skip the ankle strap heels for a few days, though.”

Her painful wrapping finished, Buffy laid down. She reached out to Dean, still kneeling by the bed, and stroked his cheek. “Your bed’s not very comfortable.”

Nipping at her fingers, he said, “It’s just for sleeping.”

“God, do I have to listen to you two flirt now?” Sam groaned.

“This is the first time I’ve been in here.” Buffy took in the faux wood paneling, worn carpet, and scratchy bedding. Two beds, a nightstand, a dresser, a television, a phone, and a painting on the wall that could have been titled Crime Scene in Orange. That was Dean’s entire private space. “It’s very brown,” she proclaimed.

“Okay, you’re sewn up. Go clean up then I’ll bandage it.”

“Thanks, nurse.”

“Shut up,” said Sam with all the annoyance and love a sibling could produce.

Dean gently brushed Buffy’s hair behind her ear, his calloused fingers tickling her. “Will you be okay for a bit, or you wanna go home now?”

Dean was standing up, his muscular but soft body on display in the dim light. Despite all the dirt, blood and bruises, she wanted to unzip his pants and give him a blow job right there. At the very least, she wanted to hop in the shower with him. But Sam was hovering.

“I’ll be okay with Sam.”

He kissed her on the forehead and headed for the shower.

Sam, still glaring, repacked the first aid kit setting a large gauze square and some tape to the side.

She said, “You’re pretty good at stitches.”

“Unfortunately, I have lots of experience. This job’s not exactly safe.”

He slung some empty beer bottles from the dresser and Dean’s ruined plaid shirt into the trash. Picking up the bloody towels, he hurried to the bathroom. She could faintly hear Dean’s humming. Sam returned, hands clean, and yanked some clothes from the dresser. He hurtled them in the bathroom before flopping on his bed.

“You’re mad, Sammy,” she said.

His icy glare settled on her, his voice a harsh whisper, “First, you don’t get to call me Sammy. Only Dean calls me Sammy. Second, how did three vampires get the drop on you, the Slayer and the best hunter I know? Were you not paying attention?”

“We got distracted.”

“By what? Were you too busy groping each other like a couple of fucking teenagers to remember the whole fucking reason you were out there was because something was hunting couples?”

“You’re being a jerk.”

“Look, Buffy, I’m glad you and Dean are working out. He seems happy, and God knows he deserves a little happiness in this terrible life. But I need you to understand, Dean is all I have. He is my entire family, and since Cas moved us to Sunnydale, he’s my only friend. He’s doing extra patrols just so he can spend time with you. Do not let the cost of that be his life.”

The bathroom door opened with a click, and Dean emerged in a fresh pair of jeans, t-shirt in his hand, skin still wet from the shower. He sat next to Buffy and teased her with his wet hair.

“Ahh! Stop it! You must feel better.”

He nodded.

She grabbed the gauze and tape from the bed and bandaged his shoulder. “You guys have any antiseptic?”

“We ran out,” said Sam.

“I have some at home. We need to get an ice pack on that eye anyway. Dean, you want to come home with me?”

Gingerly, he put on his t-shirt. Then he scooped her small body in his arms and headed for the door.

“Your shoulder–”

“Just shut up, okay,” he said winking.

* * *

 

It was nearly two in the morning when they pulled into her driveway. The dark windows said Xander was gone; Dawn asleep. Dean insisted on carrying Buffy up the stairs. He left her in the bathroom while he fetched two ice packs from the freezer.

After stripping off her dirty clothes, Buffy sat on the bathroom counter in nothing but a hot pink thong and white bralette. A shower was out of the question until her ankle healed a bit, so she wiped herself down with a washcloth until she felt something like clean again.

Dean returned with the ice packs and stopped short in the doorway, a pleased grin on his face.

She flicked her green eyes up at him for a moment and smiled seductively. “You checking me for other injuries?”

“Is that what I’m supposed to be looking at?” he asked with a swagger.

With one hand, he grabbed her knee, and spun her so her injured leg was stretched on the counter. Gently, he set the ice pack on her ankle. His hand slowly traveled up her leg, his thumb tickling the inside of her thigh until he hooked his fingers around her already damp underwear.

She wanted him to fuck her right there in the bathroom, but she wasn’t sure how with her ankle screaming.

He licked his lips and leaned over to kiss her, consume her. His tongue played over her teeth. She sighed as his long fingers pushed her panties aside.

“Dean, the door’s open.” She tried to compose herself in the few seconds it took him to close it. “You need to keep that ice on your eye.”

He examined his face in the mirror. His cheekbone to his browbone was deep red, shiny and swollen enough to make it look like he was drunkenly winking. At least his eye wasn’t bloodshot. “I’ve looked worse,” he shrugged.

“I don’t care, tough guy. I like your face the way it is.”

She wrapped her arms around him, slid her hands up his muscular back, and delicately removed his t-shirt. “Buttons might be easier while that heals.”

He tried to kiss her again, but she stopped him.

“Your shoulder? Turn around.”

She peeled off the bandage she’d recently applied and cleaned the wound with antiseptic not purchased at a liquor store. Satisfied his stitches weren’t going to get an infection, she ran her hands over his smooth back. Tattooed, freckled, and until now, unscarred. _I have lots of experience_ , Sam had said, but it wasn’t here.

He turned around to face her, lust dancing in his eyes. “See something you like?”

Tonight was the first time she’d seen Dean’s body in more than the moonlight. She put her hand on the pink handprint on his shoulder, checking it for size. She’d already asked several times, but he wouldn’t tell her if it was a burn or a brand or anything. It was definitely a handprint from someone larger than her.

Dropping her hands to his waist, she unbuckled Dean’s belt and pushed off his pants and boxers. The list on his thigh – letters and dates it looked like in the light – was another off-limits mark.

Taking him in her hands, however, was not. She gazed into his eyes as she stroked him, enjoying the twitches of his face as he tried to maintain control.

“With my ankle injured, I need to keep my legs up. You have any suggestions?”

* * *

 

Her bare feet slapped across the stone street, a cloud of dust in her wake as she descended into the city. Hiding hadn’t worked. She could only run. Turning corners and cutting through alleys, she tried to shake them; but they were still coming. Her skin prickled as they drew near. Her lungs begged for air and her legs burned, but she ran on, heading for the music, the anonymity of the crowd.

“Socorro! Socorro!” she screamed at the people clogging the street, but no one paid attention to street children.

She pushed and elbowed her way deeper into the throng. “Socorro!”

The drums the trumpets drowned her out, the music at its peak. Suddenly, the crowd disappeared. She was awash in feathers, glitter, and skin. She spun around the dancers, tumbled, and barely escaped being trampled by a horse. Reaching the other side of the parade, once more in the crowd, several people drunkenly slapped her on the back congratulating her on her surprise performance.

“Socorro!”

The blade entered her back, pushing aside flesh and lung like it belonged there. She coughed, speckling her glittered hand red. She fell back into the street, confetti raining in front of her eyes as the world went dark.

* * *

 

Buffy bolted upright, panting. She ran her hands over her body. No stab wounds. Her ankle was throbbing, but her lungs were intact. A hand lightly touched her shoulder, and she quickly pushed her assailant off. There was a crash and a groan. She peered over the edge of the bed at Dean sprawled naked on the floor.

“Oh! Dean, I’m so sorry! Are you hurt?”

“Just my pride.” He massaged the back of his head as he climbed back into bed. “What was that? You have a nightmare?”

“I - I don’t think so. It was too real. Maybe a vision?”

“Vision? You have visions? That a normal Slayer thing, too?” He sounded uneasy.

She lied, “Only a few times.”

Dean reached out for her hand. “So what was this freaky vision?”

“You know how you’re you in dreams? That wasn’t what happened. I was seeing and feeling everything as if I were someone else. My skin was brown and my clothes old and dirty. I was in a city, not Sunnydale. I could see green mountains above the buildings. No one was speaking English. I was very small and scared. I was running away from someone, but I never saw them. Then there were a bunch of people and a parade. I tried to hide in the crowd, but someone stabbed me. Then I-I died and woke up.”

His lips pursed, brow furrowed, he caressed her warm cheek. “How’s your ankle?”

“Painful.”

“Got any aspirin?”

“In the medicine cabinet.”

Dean headed to the bathroom and returned a few moments later in his boxers, bottle of aspirin in hand. “I’ll get you some water,” he said before kissing her forehead.

Still sweating from fear, Buffy tossed off the blankets. Her heartbeat steadied. It was just after four, the edge of morning. Dawn would still be asleep for hours, so she didn’t have to worry about Dean in his underwear running into her little sister. _Is that what he wears to bed? He’ll need some pajamas when he stays here._ He was kissing her forehead and getting her something to drink while she thought about his loungewear; what was supposed to be a quick fuck after slaying was rapidly turning domestic.

Dean returned with a glass of water and switched on the bedside lamp. “Could you open a window?” she asked. “All the vision running made me hot.”

“How does this work?” He pulled back the curtains on the grey night. “This girl getting stabbed, did that happen, or is it gonna happen? And what does it mean to you?”

Buffy shrugged. “Visions aren’t exactly a science. I don’t even know where she was…is? Somehow, I felt connected to her. It was really weird.”

She washed down her pills and studied him leaning on the window sill. “You know, you are wearing entirely too many clothes to be in this room.”

He smirked and stripped. He had no inhibitions about being naked, no hint of shyness. Between his strong, broad shoulders, muscular legs like tree trunks, and impressive size, why would he? _God, his body’s delicious._

He sat on the end of the bed, her feet in his lap. “Your bandage is coming off.” It had slipped, pooling around her ankle, but she was much more interested in playing with him with her good foot. After a few strokes, he moved her uninjured leg behind him. “I’m trying to help – I’ll be damned. The swelling is almost gone.”

“Then don’t worry about wrapping it. I need your help in other areas.” She bit her lip and giggled.

Obligingly, he knelt down, hooked one of her knees over his shoulder, and began to devour her.

* * *

 

“Dean! _Dean!_ ” Buffy yelled in his ear. He was still asleep, flailing, screaming, crying. No amount of shaking worked.

“Alastair, no! Please! Please, stop!” he begged again and again.

Dodging another swinging fist, Buffy slapped him across his black eye.

Shocked awake, Dean sat up gasping for air like he’d been drowning. He was trembling, disoriented, eyes wide with fear. He did not seem to see her.

Tenderly, she held his face in her hands. “Dean? Are you okay? It’s Buffy. Your Girly, remember? Dean?”

His eyes darted all around the room before settling on her face.

“What were you dreaming about?” she asked.

He’d been screaming for Sam, begging for his life. What roles Alastair, Michael, Lucifer, and Meg played, she could only guess. People he couldn’t save? Demons?

He moved away and sat on the edge of the bed with his back to her. She slid over to him and rested her head on his uninjured shoulder. The minutes ticked by, and Dean’s ragged breath smoothed out. Still, silence.

“You can tell me. It’s okay.”

“I gotta get to work,” he growled, launching himself from the bed and frantically putting on his clothes.

He was headed to the bathroom for his pants when she asked, “Dean, who’s Alastair?”

Stopping at the door, his face twisted in fury and fear, he said, “This ain’t that sort of relationship, Buffy. We’re not sharing our feelings and having heart-to-heart snuggle-fests. We’re just fucking. That’s it.”

He disappeared before she could say anything else. A few minutes later, she heard the Impala’s purr fade down the street.

There was a small knock on the door, and Buffy hurriedly covered herself with the sheet. “What do you want?”

Dawn, smiling like an idiot, poked her head in. “Soooo, Dean was here. In the morning. Wink. Wink. Nudge. Nudge.”

“Shut up. Why are you even up this early?”

“You were kinda screaming his name. And look, you’re still naked!”

Buffy clenched the sheets tighter around her. “Oh my God, get out!”

“Buffy’s got a boyfriend! Buffy’s got a boyfriend!” Dawn clapped and danced in the hallway. “Did he leave for donuts or something?”

She laid back down, burying her face in the pillow Dean had slept on. “Uh, no. He has to work. That’s it.”


End file.
